Milk Thistle
by ALaCarte
Summary: Mello was 14 when he left Whammys, 15 when he discovered the mafia, and 16 when he first killed a man. A music!drabble about Mello's hurdles with the trigger.  Song "Milk Thistle" by Conor Oberst


The grip of the bike under his gloves feels light, despondent, and the helmet around his head makes his thoughts feel cloudy. His attention is not on the road as he weaves in and out of traffic, sure, his eyes are locked on the pavement in front of him; but his mind is lost.

Tonight, he will kill someone.

Although it won't be the first time he's pointed a gun, tonight he will kill someone. Tonight will be the first time he's felt blood on his hands-no, that's not right. He's felt blood before, on his hands, his face, soaking his clothes, with his parents gasping-

Mello cuts off the thought with a quick blink of his eyes.

He doesn't know the man's name, he doesn't know what he did, he doesn't know what he's like.

And he doesn't want to.

The mafia have simply given him an address, an address and a picture. The Polaroid is currently tucked neatly into the buttoned breast pocket of Mello's leather jacket, and he tries not to think of the man's face.

In the Polaroid, he looks sad. Vacant and uncaring, sure, but with grey rings around his eyes that echo regret and give him the softness of a skeleton. Mello wonders if it's because of what the man has done that makes him sad, because if the mafia's after him, this man has hurt somebody somehow. It was probably another scumbag, the man that this man had hurt, but that wouldn't have changed the weight killing came with. A life is a life, and all lives have value. Maybe not to him, but everyone has someone. The man in the Polaroid knew this. He knew that whomever he hurt had someone. Someone that loved them.

Mello tries to stop thinking, but the air is heavy with his thoughts and no matter how fast he drives, or how tight he takes the corners, or how much wind is rushing past him-Mello cannot escape his thoughts.

The man in the Polaroid looks like a good man. Bad men have no rings, no regrets. The man in the Polaroid has someone that loves him, too. Everyone does.

An unsettling feeling squirms in his gut when he comes to a stop outside of the trailer home; it's a wreck of a metal bullet lost in the bottomless desert that surrounds it. At night-like tonight, the desert of LA is freezing, but Mello can't feel a thing with the burning gun in his pocket.

Their's an owl buried in a cactus somewhere for the night; it's hooting echoing through the outside air. The trailer has the shifting colorful light of TV behind it's threadbare curtains, a radio softly scratching it's slow drawl through the air, _"Milk thistle, milk thistle, Let me down slow. Help me go slow. I've been carrying on.I'm not scared of nothing, I'll go pound for pound. I keep death on my mind, like a heavy crown. If I go to heaven, I'll be bored as hell. Like a little baby, at the bottom of a well"_ The radio is full of static, the cords of the guitar barely coming through with the melody.

Mello suddenly feels small, so small and so out of place. How did he get here?

His blonde hair is like silk in the moonlight, and it shifts like rippling water when he lifts his head to stare at the sky. All those stars.

He curls his hand around the gun.

_"Fair child, fair child, how are you man? Did you fix that storefront? Did you start that band? Don't be scared of nothing, you go pound for pound. You bring peace to midnight, like a spotted owl. I'll be rooting for you, like my favorite team. If somebody sweats you, You just point them out to me."_

Mello takes a deep breath and lets it out into the night before he takes a step forward, like a child learning to walk, he concentrates on doing something as simple as placing one foot in front of the other. The man in the Polaroid has heard him, he knows, the calamity of a motorcycle is hard to miss. The man is waiting for him, for this. The man knows.

_"All the sights and sounds, this little world's too crowded now, and there's only one way out; An elevator ride, through the tunnel towards the light. And I'm nowhere bound, keep going up and down, up and down"_

Left, right, left, right.

A gloved hand reaches out for the cracked handle, unhinged and nearly falling off the windblown door. The leather of Mello's glove creaks, a noise unnoticed over the radio's soft lullaby. _"Newspaper, newspaper, can't take no more. You're here every morning, waiting at my door. I'm just trying to kiss you, and you stab my eyes. Make me blue forever, like an island sky. And I'm not pretending that it's all okay. Just let me have my coffee, before you take away the day"_ Their's something in the scratchy song, combined with the stillness of the night and the solemn expecting gaze from the old grey eyes that greet him as he opens the door; something makes Mello break like the last dying chimes of a jewelry box.

Tears are in the corners of his eyes, and his chest has turned into a warm burning pain, when Mello lifts the gun parallel to the face mirroring the one in his pocket.

_"Lazarus, Lazarus, why all the tears? Did your faithful chauffeur just disappear? What a lonesome feeling, to be waiting around. Like some washed up actress in a Tinseltown. But for the record, I'd come pick you up, we'll head for the ocean. Just say when you've had enough."_

The words from the radio burn him, brand him with the shame of his wet eyes and the haunting face that waits for him to move. The Polaroid man is waiting for the trigger, his sad eyes locked on Mello's, when he smiles. The man smiles, and then the man closes his eyes.

The bang makes him come undone, and Mello sinks to the ground in a heap with shaky hands gripping a smoking gun. Emotions clatter over him like waves sinking a ship, racking his small frame; too skinny and too young. Far too young.

_"All the light and sound, this little world's too fragile now, and there's only one way out; But if you let me slide, I'll do my best to make things right. And I'm nowhere bound, just going up and down, up and down"_ The radio drones on, heedless of it's master's demise, scraping words into the crumpled lost boy falling apart on top of the laminate floor tiles. _"Milk thistle, milk thistle, let me down slow. Just help me go slow. I've been hurrying on, I was poised for greatness, I was down and out. I keep death at my heels, like a basset hound."_ He clutches the rosary hanging at his neck, muttering a prayer that feels like a lie under his skin slimy with nervous sweat and weighed down by shame.

_"If I go to heaven, I'll be bored as hell. Like a crying baby, at the bottom of a well…"_ The song is over with a few dying cords, and Mello turns off the radio with a click.

He closes the Polaroid man's eyes.

He cleans his gun.

He takes another deep breath, giving it away to the moon and the silence of the night.

Then, Mello gets back on his motorcycle and drives away.


End file.
